Deleted Preface

Preface: a Tour of Ephesus

by

Finlay McQuade

      Readers who have visited the ancient city of Ephesus and remember something of its buildings and topography may appreciate the stories in this collection in a way that is unavailable to those who have never been there. Each story deals with a major event in the history of Ephesus and takes place in and around its most memorable buildings. Those of you who have visited the site will recall some of the things you saw and maybe some of the things your tour guide told you. Perhaps you wondered, as I did, about the people who lived in those empty buildings. Who were they? What was important to them? How were they touched by the history that sometimes took them unawares? When writing each story I tried to imagine what might really have happened, remaining true to history where the history is known and inventing plausible details where the history is unknown. But stories told in print require a reader also to imagine. That is why the experience of having visited the well-preserved ruins of Ephesus might make a difference. And for that reason, I have taken one additional tour, accompanied by a knowledgeable tour guide, and kept a record of what I saw and what I learned. This, then, might help you imagine the events and the places you encounter in the stories.

      My guide’s name is Islam. When not guiding tours of archaeological sites in Turkey and Greece, he manages a farm not far from Ephesus, where he cultivates olives, walnuts, and all sorts of delicious fruit. While I was with him, I came to the conclusion that he knows just about everyone in and around the ancient city, including the souvenir sellers and the other guides, some of whom call him “Hocam” (pronounced hojam), meaning “Teacher.”

      I meet him at the Ephesus Museum, where I buy a combination ticket, which is good for the museum and the site itself. The museum has a rich collection of pots, coins, figurines, and an array of life-size statues, which, taken all-in-all, provide a sweeping introduction to a tour of this Ionian-Graeco-Roman city of 50,000 people. I am particularly interested in a larger-than-life statue of Artemis, which, surprisingly, was not found among the ruins of the Temple of Artemis, but in the forecourt of the Prytaneion, or Town Hall. The holy image of Artemis that was housed in the Temple was made from wood and has not survived the sixteen centuries since the temple was closed and its parts re-cycled into other buildings, both near and far.

      The statue of Artemis is flanked by two headless animals, probably deer, and her dress is decorated with images of wild animals and bees, which show up elsewhere in Ephesian iconography. Her most prominent feature is a cluster of grape-like protrusions often described as “breasts,” but it is obvious upon casual inspection that these protrusions are not attached to her body, but to her long-sleeved bodice. If they are not breasts, what are they? Grapes? Eggs? Or, as one theory suggests, bulls’ testicles? When I ask Islam about this, he smiles knowingly. “Breasts, grapes, eggs, bulls’ testicles,” he explains, “all of these.” I get the point: they are not representational; they are symbols of fertility.

      Not far from the museum are the remains of the Temple. Anyone who knows anything about Ephesus before coming here knows that the Temple of Artemis was one of the Seven Wonders of the Ancient World. The poet Antipater in the 1^st century BCE listed six of these Wonders and added, “But when I saw the sacred house of Artemis that towers to the clouds, the others were placed in the shade, for the sun himself has never looked upon its equal outside Olympus.” 

      What a disappointment awaits these tourists! Although its fallen stones outline the huge expanse of the Temple’s mighty footprint upon the earth, many are half buried in the swampy soil and some are submerged completely in a pond of brackish water. The guidebooks say, “Only one solitary column remains,” but that one column has neither the height nor the grace of those that supported the Temple in its heyday. The archaeologists who worked on the site collected an assortment of column drums and had them stacked, one on top of another, as a monument to the past. Instead of the typical Ionian capital, this column is crowned by a stork’s nest. The irony is evident to tourists and will no doubt color their narration when they show their photographs to their friends. Incidentally, those photos will also capture a magnificent stretch of architectural time. Beyond the lone column, further up the hill, is the Isa Bey Mosque, built in the 14^th century by Seljuk Turks to honor the Bey of the Beylik of Aydin. Higher up the hill is the Basilica of St. John, built by order of the Emperor Justinian in the 6^th century to shelter the grave of John the Evangelist, who is reputed have lived and preached in Ephesus for over fifty years. Then, at the very top of the hill, is a great castle, built by Byzantines and later occupied by Ottoman janissaries. To the right of the Basilica, above the trees, are the twin towers of the Gate of Persecution, which leads into the citadel that surrounds the Basilica. And further to the right, just visible through the trees, is the house in which I lived happily for eight years, visiting the ruins of Ephesus almost every day on my daily walks.   

As we survey the few remaining stones of the Temple, Islam tells me a bit about its history. It seems that some sort of temple has occupied the site since forever, first built, perhaps, by Amazons, as the founding legend claims. Archaeological evidence suggests it was destroyed by a flood in the 7^th century BCE, a likely disaster considering its swampy location. Its subsequent manifestation as one of the Wonders of the World was commissioned and funded by Croesus, the fabulously rich king of Lydia, in 550 BCE. That version was destroyed by fire in 356 BCE, on the same day that Alexander the Great was born. The arsonist, they say, was a madman named Herostratus, and his motive was his wish to be famous. Well, I have always doubted that story, thinking that such barefaced defiance of the gods would require a more powerful motive than a wish to be famous. Thus, in “Herostratus,” my version of the story, I have given him such a motive. 

Alexander offered to pay for reconstruction of the Temple, but the town council sagely refused. Although rebuilding at local expense was slow, a new temple gradually emerged, even larger and grander than before. It survived grievous damage inflicted by marauding Goths in 268 BCE and continued to serve its devotees until Christianity finally overwhelmed Paganism sometime around the 5^th century CE. Today, a flock of geese quack aggressively and charge at anyone daring to approach the ruins. A pack of sleeping dogs raise their heads to see what the noise is all about. These are the sacred animals of the goddess, I imagine, enfeebled by time, but vigilant, guarding the shattered remains of her domain.

      Our next stop is the Grotto of the Seven Sleepers. When approaching the site around the back of a restaurant and up a gravelly hillside, one is struck by the paper-encrusted trees that line one’s path. These are the rain-washed notes of supplicants, mostly Muslim, who have written their hopes on scraps of paper and pinned them to the branches. It is a holy site for Muslims and Christians alike. Islam summarizes the story for me. Seven young Christians hid in a cave to escape persecution during the reign of Decius in the 3^rd century CE. They fell asleep and woke up during the reign of Theodosius II in the 5^th century. When they tried to buy food, their money was refused because it was two hundred years old. Ephesus by then was a Christian city, and the bishop declared the awakening of the sleepers to be a miracle, the sleepers themselves to be saints. Islam speculates that the occurrence of a miracle was a convenient happenstance for the established church, since it served to refute a current heresy that denied the resurrection of the body after death. The Christian version of the story was recorded by Gregory, Bishop of Tours, in the 6^th century and by Jacobus de Voragine, Archbishop of Genoa, in the 13^th century. A similar story is told in the Qur’an (Sura 18), although the conclusion, of course, is different. Nowadays, it is impossible to discern the grotto of the sleepers from all the other holes in the ground, but two are distinct because of their size. One, obviously, was a church built into a natural fissure and probably enlarged by excavation. Islam says that it had brick walls, a wooden roof, and was richly decorated with frescoes, all of which is easy to imagine. Holes in the floor reveal a fully functional crypt, although the tombs have long since been emptied and defaced. The other cavernous space was once entirely underground, and it also contains alcoves for storage of the dead. Any sarcophagi that remain, however, have been opened, broken, and looted.

      When reading about the site prior to writing “The Sleepers,” I learned that a Roman necropolis was already there, situated along one section of the “Sacred Way,” which started at the Temple of Artemis and followed the eastern slope of Mount Pion (now Mt. Panayir) to the Magnesia Gate and onward into the city. Clive Foss, in Ephesus after Antiquity: a Late Antique, Byzantine, and Turkish City, wrote: "The simplest explanation of the evidence would be that burials already existed in the vicinity of the grotto of the Seven Sleepers in the Roman period, probably because of its proximity to the Roman necropolis. The legend of the Seven Sleepers could have been attached to an already existing burial ground for various reasons: perhaps because of the religious associations of the region, or because some famous victims of the great persecutions were known to be buried there." I have incorporated much of the history and topology of the region into my story.

      We had begun the tour when the museum opened at 8:30 a.m., and now it was 10:30. Islam, living alone because his wife is visiting family in Germany, admits that he has not yet eaten breakfast. How convenient that we are in the parking lot of a restaurant!  Askerin Yeri Gözleme Bahçesi (The Soldier’s Gözleme Garden) is housed in a tent-like structure made from sheets of plastic and heavy black fabric woven from goats’ wool. I agree to taking a break for breakfast. I love the floury flatbread called “gözleme,” usually filled with ground meat, cheese, chopped vegetables, or all of the above. Clearly, Islam had thought of this before leaving home. He goes now to his car for a package that he unwraps and gives to the women who sit by an open fire rolling gözleme farls and cooking them on a dome-shaped griddle. “Wild garlic from my garden,” he explains and adds, “The owner [of the restaurant] is my neighbor.” Breakfast is delicious: more gözleme than I can eat, stuffed with white cheese and spinach and seasoned with wild garlic. I leave with left-overs in my backpack.

      We drive to the “upper gate” of Ephesus. Here, on a typical summer’s day, thousands of tourists coming from cruise ships docked in Kușadasi disembark from their buses, which then drive around Mt. Panayir to the “lower gate,” thus saving their passengers from a weary uphill walk at the end of their tour. Tours usually take about two hours. Mine takes longer, because I have lots of questions and Islam has lots of answers. He begins with background information about the founding and growth of the city. Actually, there are two founding myths. One says that the city was founded by Amazons, led by a queen called Ephos. The other says that it was founded by an Athenian prince called Androklos. He has the more convincing claim. Estranged from his homeland, he was told by an oracle to look for a fish and a boar and to settle in the place where he found them, which he did. Eventually, he led the city he founded into the Ionian league, which flourished for a while and then was conquered by Croesus, King of Lydia, in 560 BCE. Croesus oversaw another period of prosperity, during which he built the great Temple of Artemis to replace the original. Croesus was over-ambitions in attacking Persia sometime around 547 BCE, and his defeat led to the Persian occupation of Asia Minor. Ephesus joined a revolt of Ionian cities, and in 479 BCE the Persians were sent packing. Ephesus sided with Athens during the Peloponnesian Wars, after which the Persians, who had sided with Sparta, came roaring back. They re-occupied Asia Minor until Alexander the Great defeated them at the Granicus River in 334 BCE. 

      When Alexander died in 323 BCE and his generals divided the Macedonian Empire between them, the city that had grown from its mythical past was in trouble. Its shallow harbor near the Temple of Artemis was too far from the open sea, and its swamps in summertime were breeding grounds for the parasite-bearing Anopheles mosquito. People were dying of malaria without understanding why. Lysimachus, the general who inherited Asia Minor, wanted to move the troubled city to a better location in the windswept valley between Mt. Koressos and Mt. Pion. The people of Ephesus were reluctant to move, however, until a flood made their water-logged city uninhabitable. Strabo, in Geography, written early in the 1^st century CE, claimed that Lysimachus had blocked the drains and caused the flood. That story is told by all the tour guides, Islam included. In my version of “The Flood,” Lysimachus is not personally responsible. I give him an equally heartless agent.

      Upon entering through the upper gate, we find ourselves in the governmental sector of the city. What we see in the valley ahead of us are the remains of a city in the period of Late Antiquity, during which the Roman Empire had become Christian and Ephesus flourished as a major Mediterranean port. Here are the remains of an imposing building commonly called the “Baths of Varius,” which must have been very grand and was much restored, a sure sign that the baths were in constant use and were patronized by wealthy Ephesians. They are probably not the baths where Pithon and Ahirom go for a dip in “Father Dis.” These swaggering teenagers probably attended more modest baths that have not been identified and restored. 

      The Prytaneion, or Town Hall, is next door, a marker identifying the precise spot in the forecourt where the statue of Artemis was discovered.We might say that the Prytaneion housed the executive branch of the government; the Odeon, or Bouleuterion, an intimate little theater, housed the legislative branch. Across the street from the Odeon is an open space known as the “State Agora,” which, Islam surmises, provided the government with a ceremonial setting for important speeches and patriotic celebrations. Before descending into the marble-paved street. A colonnaded walkway connects the baths to the Basilica, a great hall where businessmen and leading downwards to the beckoning façade of the Celsus Library, we admire the panoramic view. We can see the partially reconstructed buildings that line Curetes Street, the temples, the roofed-in “terrace houses,” the great theater, the harbor (or what used to be the harbor), and the stadium in the distance, all contained in a tight little valley between Mt. Bulbul on the left and Mt. Panayir on the right. Ephesians knew these mountains as Mt. Koressos and Mt. Pio. We walk past the Pollio Fountain to Domitian Square. A plentiful supply of water was delivered into the city along cleverly engineered aqueducts arching downwards from distant hills and channeled through underground pipes to a thirsty city. Pipes leading to the Pollio Fountain are clearly visible.

      Across the Square from the Fountain is a temple testifying to the divinity of Roman emperors. The Emperor Domitian was a controversial figure. He is known to have been extremely authoritarian and vindictive, even more so than was usual for a Roman emperor.  He undermined the authority of the Senate and executed senators he considered to be his enemies. When he died, stabbed by disloyal servants, the Senate voted to remove his name from all the monuments that had been erected in his honor. Why, then, I wonder, is this plaza called “Domitian Square” and this temple called the “Domitian Temple”?

      "It should not be,” Islam admits. “In Ephesus, after Domitian died, the temple was renamed for his father, Vespasian. It should be ‘Vespasian Temple’ and ‘Vespasian Square.’”

      Further confusing the issue, I had learned that an inscription found among these ruins referred to the “Sebastoi,” an honorific that recognized the divinity of all the emperors since Augustus. Consequently, the “Domitian Temple” is also known as the “Sebastoi Temple.” My young Christian convert in “Father Dis,” is brought before the high priest of this temple and given the choice between making a sacrifice to the emperors or dying as a martyr in the arena. Uncertain of what Ephesians might have called it, I decided that “Emperors’ Temple” would be apt. It was, and still is, a massive structure. However, it is not easy to reconstruct the complete temple in one’s mind’s eye, because all that remains of it is a lot of rubble and the supporting archways of an elevated platform built into the hillside on three sides. A line drawing posted on the site provides a useful visual aid; it shows a multi-columned temple built on top of the platform, at least 20 meters above ground level. Its forty columns must have added another 20 meters to the total height of the whole enormous structure.

      We continue our walk down Curetes Street, weaving around tour groups snapping their pictures and listening to their guides in Chinese, Japanese, Korean, Russian, and all sorts of European languages, some of which I recognize and some I do not. We pause to admire the carved reliefs of Nike, Hermes, and Heracles, all brought to their current locations from elsewhere in the city. The relief showing Heracles in his lion skin forms a gate that must have blocked the passage of wheeled traffic up and down the street, but that gate was not there when the wagon carrying Ahirom in “Father Dis” bumped and creaked uphill from the harbor. As a matter of fact, “Curetes Street” was not “Curetes Street” at that time. More likely it was known as the “Embolos.” Much of the nomenclature used by tour guides nowadays describes the empty archaeological site of today, and not the fully functioning city of the past. The name “Curetes Street” is derived from inscriptions on columns found near the Prytaneion. The Curetes were the demi-gods who stood guard over the birth of Artemis in a wooded glen near Ephesus. Re-enacted by priestly human beings, they were responsible for keeping alight the perpetual flame that symbolized the life of the city. No doubt they also participated in religious processions down the Embolos, because it was part of the “Sacred Way” that led to and also from the Temple of Artemis.

      At the bottom of the street, Islam greets another tour guide. His name is Bulent. He has only one customer, a German gentleman. Bulent and Islam laugh about this, because Islam’s German is better than Bulent’s and Bulent’s English is better than Islam’s. Just for the fun of it, they ask if it is OK to swap. The German and I readily agree, although I signal to Islam that I will want him back again.

      Bulent takes me into the “Baths of Scholastica,” which, confusingly, are identified as the “Baths of Varius” on a nearby sign. These, it seems, are the real Baths of Varius. They date from the early second century CE and were later restored with funds provided by a woman named Scholastica—hence, the “Baths of Scholastica,” Varius Damianus, on the other hand, was a wealthy and distinguished public servant, who commissioned the building and made sure that it prominently enclosed a private room for himself and his wife. Adjoining the baths is the famous latrine with its many holes, at least thirty of them. Tour guides love to tell stories about the latrine, and tourists love to take pictures of one another squatting on one of the holes. Bulent explains how the two-tier drainage system worked and how Ephesians used sponges dipped and in the upper tier of fresh running water to clean themselves. As if anticipating a question I had not asked, he tells me that because they were partially covered by their togas, Ephesians using the latrine did enjoy a modicum of privacy. I do not ask what percentage of the population actually wore togas, suspecting that the number was quite small. I was under the impression that the tunica and the longer chiton were the most common garments worn by men and women in Late Antiquity. Online illustrations of Byzantine dress show a range of colorful clothing, especially in cities with ethnically and economically diverse populations, such as Ephesus.

I am reunited with Islam outside the roofed-over Terrace Houses. I pay the additional fee and we enter. The signage identifies six houses, built on three levels going upwards, the roofs on one level supporting the floors of the next, but even though I have visited the houses in the past, I make little effort to understand the complex arrangement of space. Islam does not have much to say as we follow the glass walkway and metal steps from one level to the next. I am left to marvel at the grandeur of the rooms, the marble-lined halls and columned courtyards, the frescoed walls, and the wonderfully well-preserved mosaic floors. I have not set a story in these terrace houses, not exactly, but I have transferred some of the details I see here to fictional houses in other parts of the city.

Our exit down a long flight of stairs brings us to the Octagon, a tomb with a mystery. A reconstructed drawing posted at the site shows a squat octagonal tower with a conical roof supported by eight columns. The tomb was underneath. The bones of its occupant were discovered in 1929 by an Austrian archaeologist, left in place (except for the skull), forgotten, then re-discovered in 1993 by Hilke Thür. Osteologists concluded that they were the bones of a young girl. But who was she? And why was her tomb, which dates from  the 1^st century BCE, so prominently situated among monuments to Emperors in Ephesus? Hilke Thür claims to have solved the mystery, by inference, at least, if not by proof. Arsinoe, the younger sister of Cleopatra, was murdered in Ephesus by order of Mark Anthony, Triumvir of the Eastern Empire and Cleopatra’s lover at the time, probably in collusion with Cleopatra. In all likelihood, the bones are Arsinoe’s. Her death ended a tragic story that began in Alexandria during the Roman occupation that was led by Julius Caesar. Caesar captured the young Arsinoe, sent her to Rome, and eventually banished her to the Temple of Artemis when he might just as easily have had her executed as an enemy of the state. Sanctuary in the Temple, however, did not save her from the ruthlessness of Anthony and Cleopatra. Islam tells me this story as we look at the wreckage of the tomb. My version, told in her own words by Arsinoe herself, appears later in this book.

      Next door to the Octagon is the Library of Celsus. If you enter “Ephesus” in a search for images on the Internet, the Library of Celsus is sure to turn up; the most photographed building in the city and also, in my opinion, the most beautiful. Its façade is defined by eight marble columns on the first floor and another eight directly above them on the second floor. The cornices that span the spaces between successive columns form four arches on the first floor, but surprisingly, only three on the second floor. The counterpoint created by this visual trickery is continued and reinforced by four statues framed by the columns on the first floor and three windows framed by the columns on the second floor. Beneath the three windows are three doors, magnetically inviting one to climb the steps and go inside. The interior consists of one large room, presumably a common reading room, not unlike the reading rooms of public libraries today. Islam points out the closet-sized niches built into three of the interior walls. This is where books, in the form of papyrus scrolls, were stored in wooden cabinets. Traces of columns provide the evidence of a second-floor balcony, where the arrangement of storage niches was probably duplicated. An apse is centered on the rear wall, and centered in the apse is a pedestal, where a statue of the founder once had stood. Tiberius Julius Celsus Polemaeanus was a Roman consul who bequeathed the funds for this library before he died. Much of “The Missing Book” takes place in this library.

Shops in the Agora

      From there, we stroll through an archway dedicated to Caesar Augustus and into the agora, its enormous emptiness traversed today by only a few tourists. Away from the crowds and the talk of the guides, it is almost impossible to imagine the clamor of buying and selling that must have filled this agora every day. Only a Breugel could envision such a scene. I have attempted two cameos extracted  from the larger picture; in “The Sleepers,” one of the seven sleepers comes to the agora expecting to buy food, and in “The Sons of Sceva,” two of the sons come here to find Demetrius the silversmith in his shop. A wooden walkway takes Islam and me to a gate connecting the agora and the broad avenue that once led to the harbor—a much traveled route in the past, but not today, alas. The sea has receded, the harbor is dry, and the avenue is blocked by a cable, beyond which the road disintegrates into weeds and nondescript shrubbery. 

      

      Looking the other way, however, we have a great view of the theater and the hundreds of tiny people who scuttle across its immensity. These are the tourists who came to the theater via “Marble Street,” thus bypassing the agora. Their guides almost certainly would have pointed out a footprint carved into a stone by the side of the road, along with other miniaturized graffiti showing a cross, a woman’s head, and what looks like a heart. Collectively, these are interpreted as directions to a brothel, located, supposedly, in a house nearby. I find this interpretation too fanciful and amusing to take seriously. The so-called “brothel” is in an ordinary Ephesian house where a statuette of the fertility god Priapus was found. An image of this little god with the huge penis might have been on display in almost any house in Ephesus (it is now on display in the Ephesus museum). Paintings and statuary that are now considered pornographic were not at all unusual in the Roman world, nor were they hidden, or private, or decorations found only in brothels.From where Islam and I now stand below the theater, we can hear surprisingly tuneful singing coming from the other side of the skene, the high wall that forms a backdrop to the stage. We cannot see the singers, but we guess that they are members of a choir, or a tuneful group of students on an educational tour. The theater is much restored, with seats of concrete instead of limestone, but the restoration is impressive nonetheless. Islam tells me that the theater could accommodate an audience of 25,000 people. He also tells me that well-known musicians have performed here in recent years, including Sir Elton John, who gave a concert here in 2001. I wonder if 25,000 people came to hear him on that occasion.

      Perhaps the most famous event ever held in the theatre was the demonstration (some say “riot”) organized by Demetrius the silversmith to protest the influence of St. Paul, who was telling good pagan Ephesians that there is only one god, the Christian god, and not a pantheon of gods and goddesses, including their own beloved Artemis. The silversmiths made statuettes of Artemis and sold them to pilgrims who came to worship at her temple. The extent of the silversmith’s anger was a measure of Paul’s success as a missionary. Their strident demonstration proved to be effective, because Paul left Ephesus soon after, and never returned. 

      I am particularly interested in the empty hillside above the theater, because Nestorius, in my story “Nestorius,” is housed in a villa that once occupied that hillside, and from his garden up there he could look down on the harbor and the Church of the Virgin Mary, which is to be the final stop on our tour. I am satisfied that his panoramic view was possible. When the Emperors Constantine and Licinius in 313 CE welcomed Christianity into the Roman Empire, the basic principles of the church were still in flux. Constantine, who became a convert, summoned the Council of Nicea in 325 CE, which produced the Nicene Creed, a proclamation of fundamental beliefs that still endure today. Then, in 431 CE, the Emperor Theodosius summoned the Council of Ephesus, hoping to resolve a dispute about the very nature of Jesus Christ and the role of his mother, Mary, in his birth. Nestorius, Archbishop of Constantinople, maintained that Mary was the mother of the human Christ, but only the “bearer” and not the mother of the divine Christ. His opinion was considered heretical by the Pope in Rome, and the Council of Ephesus, led by Cyril, Archbishop of Alexandria, removed him from office and banished him to a distant monastery. As we walk to the Church of Saint Mary, where the council met, Islam tells me about the decision-making process employed by the council under Cyril’s direction. Most significant in Islam’s account is the absence of Nestorius when the evidence against him was presented and the decisions affecting him were made. The interior of the church is fairly well delineated by its standing walls, two churches actually, with one adjoining wall. We sit together on a fallen column, looking through a break in the adjoining wall to a distant apse and altar: more than enough space in which to accommodate the two hundred bishops who attended the Council.

      We are tired. It has been a long day and a long walk. The birth of Artemis ushered in one era; the birth of Jesus ushered in another; and that was two thousand years ago. No wonder we are tired. Islam is on the phone. He calls his nephew, who will get the car from where it is parked at the upper gate and meet us at the lower gate, a short walk from where we sit. When we emerge from the turnstiles that separate the past from the present, we are not annoyed by the shopkeepers selling—not silver statuettes of Artemis—but guidebooks and “genuine fake watches.” Islam is “Hocam,” and they step aside to let us pass.

      As we leave the site, we pass what used to be the entrance to the great stadium. Although it is now closed to the public, I have seen pictures of it, and Islam confirms that what remained of the original structure after a series on earthquakes in the 4^th century was robbed of its stoneware and further degraded in recent years by thousands of spectators who stood on its earthen banks to observe the annual spectacle of camel wrestling. The camels now wrestle in a natural amphitheater west of the city, and the stadium behind the massive stone archway is little more than a long hole in the ground. Tomorrow, we will travel twenty-five kilometers to the ancient city of Magnesia, where the stadium, preserved for centuries beneath a massive mudslide, is magnificently intact.

The Stadium at Magnesia